


Absentis

by whitchry9



Series: Carpe Diem [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epilepsy, Gen, Running Away, Seizure, dognapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gladstone goes missing, Sherlock remembers a time he ran away from home.<br/>Switches every chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was ten when he ran away for the first time. Mycroft had left for university the fall before, and he was stuck at home with parents that didn't understand him. They always wanted him to be more like Mycroft, except they didn't know everything, so blind to what was in front of them, the traces of frosted sugar on his sleeves and his complete disinterest in his so called 'girlfriend'. Sherlock knew she was just a show.

And school was worse. The other children were stupid and horrible. They all hated him, which Sherlock supposed he made it easy to do, telling them things they didn't want to hear, despite already knowing them themselves. It really didn't help that he'd have up to five seizures during the school day, occasionally wetting himself, which was an embarrassment that could never be overcome, no matter how many presentations on epilepsy were made to the school or how many students were given detention for horribly abusing him.

Still, he didn't mind school, although it was tedious and boring, but he enjoyed the library and his beanbag chair.

It was when spring break rolled around and he was forced to spent a whole week at home with his parents and no Mycroft, because his spring break was a different week.

It was when his father threw out his experiment with the worms, the one that Sherlock felt was making real progress, and yelled at him for half an hour about acceptable activities and appearances, that Sherlock calmly went to his room, packed a bag, and walked right out the front door. His parents didn't notice, his mother having gone to her room, claiming a headache, and his father having gone to his study to drink.

He wondered if they would ever notice he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

“John?” Sherlock called, waiting at the door impatiently with Gladstone. “John, we don't have all day.”

John appeared at the top of the stairs, jumping down them wearily.

“Yes, I am aware,” he informed Sherlock. “Where are we going again?”

Sherlock sighed. “We're going to visit a suspect, then I figured we could take Gladstone to the dog park. She's been looking mournful since seeing that handsome male dalmatian last week.”

John snorted. “Yeah, sure.”

 

The visit to the suspect turned out to be a bust, Sherlock noting without the first five minutes two traits that were incompatible with the person who'd committed the crime.

Sherlock excused them, not badly, even managed to apologize and smile, which left his face as soon as he swept out the door, John and Gladstone trailing on his heels.

“That was a complete waste of time,” he muttered. “At least we're close to the dog park,” he noted, glancing down at Gladstone, who was trotting alongside him looking quite pleased.

Sure enough, within only a few minutes of walking, John could see the leash less dog park. Gladstone perked up. Sherlock actually had to scold her gently to slow down, getting a bit ahead of them in her excitement.

After all, she still had a job to do, even if she could smell that handsome dalmatian on the breeze.

 

 

“Is the one in the vest yours?” a man holding a leash asked.

John glanced up at him. “Oh, well, not mine, but she belongs to my friend, so... sort of.”

The man nodded. “The dalmatian is mine. Winston. I'm Carl.” H extended his hand and John shook it.

“John. And the dog is Gladstone. She's been quite interested in your dog.”

The man laughed. “Oh, he's a big flirt. Don't want Gladstone to have her heart broken.”

“No, no we don't,” John agreed, looking around for Sherlock, who seemed nowhere to be found.

They stood in silence for a moment, watching their dogs sniff each other and play fight over a particularly good stick.

John felt Carl looking at him. He glanced over.

Carl took this opportunity to speak.

“Why's she wearing a vest?”

“She's a service dog,” John muttered, very much not wanting to have this conversation, glancing around for Sherlock to rescue him. He knows he shouldn't be too far from Gladstone, so he probably hasn't gone far, maybe up a tree or something, but it still worried John.

“Oh! Like a seeing eye dog?”

“Sort of, yeah,” John confirmed.

He looked over for Gladstone or the dalmatian, but couldn't see either.

“They just went behind that bush,” Carl said, seeing where John was looking. “So if she's not a seeing eye dog, then what is she?”

Thankfully, Sherlock chose that moment to show up.

“John,” he said urgently, “We need to go.”

John raised an eyebrow and began to open his mouth, but Sherlock cut him off.

“No, not like that,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “It's about the case. Now get Gladstone and let's go.”

John sighed, wondering why he was the one to be fetching Gladstone when she was Sherlock's dog, but didn't say anything to Sherlock, because he was eyeing Carl suspiciously.

John trudged over towards the bush where Carl said he had last seen them, but they weren't there.

“For goodness sake...” he muttered. “Gladstone!” he called, straightening up. “Come here girl!”

But there was no little woof in reply, no bounding ball in a green vest coming to greet him. John's heart sank. That couldn't mean anything good. Gladstone always came when she was called, unless she was with Sherlock. Except she wasn't.

John jogged back over to Sherlock and Carl, who were still staring each other down.

“She's not there,” he said breathlessly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “What do you mean? Weren't you watching her?”

“Of course I was Sherlock! But she's not my dog. You try calling her.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. John winced and several dogs in the park perked up, but none of them was Gladstone in her little green vest.

“What about Winston?” Carl asked frantically. “Did you see him?”

John shook his head.

Carl strode off in the direction the dogs had last been seen.

“Winston!” he called out. “Winston!”

No spotted dog came running for him.

John could see that Sherlock was not at all okay as he jabbed at his phone with shaking fingers.

“Lestrade,” he greeted, holding the phone up to his ear. “Gladstone has been dognapped. Send help.”

And with that he hung up, redialling, and holding the phone up to his ear again. He had to wait for it to ring a couple of times, shifting impatiently.

“Mycroft. Gladstone has been dognapped. I need you to declare a state of emergency.”

There was a reply from Mycroft, presumably one Sherlock wasn't pleased with, as he rolled his eyes and sighed. “No, I don't care. This is a matter of national importance as well. And even if you don't think so, you will jump to it because I am your brother!”

He hung up and looked at John.

“Mycroft seems to think a crisis in some small African country is more important than this.”

John was inclined to agree, but didn't say so. Sherlock looked panicked enough as it was, and that was something John was unused to seeing on the consulting detective.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock didn't mind being homeless. It presented as a challenge to him, one that he accepted readily. He was small and sneaky enough that he could pocket things without anyone noticing, and that was what he did, scooping some bars from a Tesco's and eating them for dinner in an abandoned warehouse. It wasn't very cozy or warm, but Sherlock knew he would make do. It reminded him a bit of his pirate days, when he used to sleep in his tree-house until Mycroft carried him down. It wasn't very warm or comfortable up there either, but he still loved it, flying his flag and demanding anyone who tried to intrude would walk the plank.

But oh, there it was, he could smell cakes, and despite it being nearing dark, the world seemed to brighten before his eyes. The so called aura.

Sherlock laid down with his head on his jacket, knowing that it needed to be cushioned. And he breathed. And he waited.

 

Sherlock had always been more comfortable having a seizure alone than with an audience, although he admitted it was better when there was someone at least around, even if it was just to make sure he was safe or to talk him through it as he woke up.

That was probably the worst part, the waking up. He was always disoriented and groggy, aching all over from the overuse of his muscles, and often frightened.

He'd hit Mycroft once when he awoke, simply because he was hovering over him and Sherlock didn't know what was going on. Mycroft never hovered after that.

And of course he could always injure himself, strike an arm on a table, or fall off whatever he was lying on, and then there was the biting. He hated waking up to a mouth full of blood, whether it was from biting a lip, the side of his mouth, or his tongue.

And then, of course, there was the loss of bladder control. With all of those muscles contracting with no rhyme or reason, there was always a chance that it would be _those_ ones to spasm. And in Sherlock's opinion, there was nothing worse than waking up from a seizure, often in front of an audience, to find you had pissed yourself. That was something babies did.

It was one of the reasons why he preferred to border on dehydration rather than risk it. If he didn't drink anything, there would be nothing to come out.


	4. Chapter 4

“Sherlock?” John said tentatively, trailing after Sherlock as he prowled the perimeter of the park.

“What is it John?” he snapped.

“Well, didn't you have Gladstone equipped with a tracker? In case she ever got lost?”

Sherlock spun around suddenly, facing John with a fierce look on his face.

“You John,” he declared “are a genius!”

“Right,” he muttered to himself, racing after Sherlock as he practically ran around the park now. “Only when I'm not being an idiot.”

Sherlock slowed in front of a bench and threw himself on it.

He fiddled with his phone while he spoke to John, not even bothering to look at him. “Did that other man find his dog?”

“What, Carl? No he didn't.”

Sherlock hummed.

“Did you ever consider the possibility that... maybe they ran off together?”

Sherlock looked up from his phone.

“John,” he said carefully. “Are you insinuating that Gladstone went off with this dalmatian to mate or something?”

He sounded rather disgusted by the idea.

“Erm... maybe?” John shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

Sherlock sighed at John and turned his attention back to the phone. “John, in case you have forgotten, Gladstone has been spayed, and that other dog was fixed. There is no chance of mating between them and besides, this is Gladstone we're talking about. And she was working.”

John frowned. “Okay. Calm down.” He shifted his whole body to look at Sherlock. “And just where were you? You know you're not supposed to get too far away from her, and yet you left her with me and went gallivanting off.”

Sherlock snorted. “John, I do not _gallivant._ ”He almost sounded insulted.

“Yes you do. And don't ignore the question.”

“Nothing of import,” he declared, accentuating the 't' of import almost violently.

“Right...” John muttered.

Sherlock stood up suddenly. “Got it.” He took off towards the street, raising a hand for a taxi.

John rolled his eyes and jogged to catch up. A little warning would be nice. At least some of the time.

 

Sherlock directed the cab driver, following the GPS on his phone. The man seemed rather irritated, but John just looked at him with an expression that clearly read 'I'm so sorry', and hoped for the best.

Finally, they reached what seemed to be their destination, Sherlock ordering him to stop and hopping out, leaving John to throw bills at the cab driver who only scowled at him in return.

 

He raced after Sherlock, who was striding towards a small building that seemed to be a washroom. They were at the grounds of yet another park, this one much less vibrant than the dog park, with no one around. John didn't like it, but followed Sherlock into the building nonetheless.

Sherlock was standing in front of a sink, his expression in the dirty mirror devastated.

“Sherlock?” John said hesitantly, stepping over next to him.

He was clutching a small microchip, traces of blood mixed with water in the sink.

“They took it out!” he wailed, resting his head on the edge of the sink.

John looked at him sadly. “It's okay Sherlock. We'll find her. Sherlock?”

Just as he stepped towards his friend, he stiffened, prompting John to grab him around the shoulders and lower him to the ground as the first tremors began.

John looked at Sherlock helplessly.

“What am I going to do with you?” he murmured.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock awoke some in the dark, noting that it wasn't too much later, which meant he hadn't lost a whole lot of time. It was still some though, and the rest of the evening was ruined, simply because he was exhausted. He fell asleep shortly after.

 

He was awoken the next morning by the sun that had peeked through the window to shine on his face. It hurt his eyes.

He groaned and tried to roll over, but the damage was done. There was no going back to sleep.

He dragged himself out of his makeshift bed and examined the damage from the night before.

A few scrapes where he must have thrashed against the floor, but nothing major. He'd be fine.

He swallowed the ineffective medication dry and chewed up a granola bar, tasting none of it.

 

He spent most of the day at the library, burying himself in stacks of old books, soaking up the knowledge. After that he pocketed some chocolate bars and crisps from Tesco's.

Except maybe this time some stupid person had been observant for once in their life, or maybe he was just getting slow because he hadn't eaten (HA!), but somehow he'd been noticed and because of some other cosmic prank, there were police officers near by who thought it would be great to give him a talking to and take him home.

Virtually the last thing he needed.

So they took him in their car to the police station, and he didn't say a word, because he knew enough about how law worked, and besides, if he didn't tell them his name, they couldn't call his parents.

And they got him seated next to one of their desks, out of the three of them, one who was nicer, one who was older, and then... the other one, who seemed to have no discerning features. The nice one got him a cup of juice, which he didn't touch.

They left him sitting there as they spoke in hushed tones amongst themselves, occasionally glancing over at him, like they were worried he would run off. (Which was justified, Sherlock figured. Because police officers were only clever when it didn't matter, not when it came to murders of other children.)

Sherlock sighed. He was bored.

“Son, what's your name?” the older one called again, like he expected an answer this time.

Sherlock kept his mouth shut and only scowled at them. He could hear them talking around him, above him, _about him._ He hated it when people treated him like he was stupid, because if any of them had taken any time at all to speak with him, they'd know full well he wasn't.

The finally finished, the two glancing at Sherlock before the nicer one returned to sit across from him to have a talk.

He did seem nicer than the others, but he smelled funny, like smoke (but not any of the kinds Sherlock had catalogued before, because he would have recognized it) and some sort of exotic flower, and he was talking too loudly about dull things, and his stupid badge kept being too bright in his eyes as the sun reflected off of it. And- _oh. OH!_ And Sherlock could have groaned, because how had he been so stupid? Because it wasn't just his eyes hurting from the sun or the man talking too loudly or actually smelling (although Sherlock was willing to bet at least part of that was genuine). It was one of those 'let's call it an aura even though it's actually a simple-partial seizure' things. But by the time he figured it out, he was well into the complex-partial seizure, which unfortunately turned out to be uncontrollable swallowing this time around, effectively ruining all hopes of communication.

The policeman stopped talking and frowned. “Are you alright son?”

 _Too_ _late,_ he wanted to say, but alas, it was. 


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock awoke soon after, much sooner than John expected, miserable and not lacking in any memories whatsoever. Typical.

He seemed all ready to go chasing after some faceless dognappers, except for the little problem that he could barely stand up on his own.

John had to fight to keep him sitting so he wouldn't just get up and immediately collapse.

“Sherlock, just sit!” he pleaded, clutching his shoulders and clinging to them.

“John,” he moaned. “John, we have to get Gladstone!”

John closed his eyes and prayed for strength.

“I know, but we can't help her if you can't walk. So stop!” he ordered, sitting on Sherlock's legs to keep him down.

He finally settled, looking at John with wounded eyes.

John softened. “I know,” he whispered. “But I'm not letting you get up only to collapse in a minute and hit your head on the sink or something.” He shook his head. “Best to just take a minute now than to waste hours at A&E.”

Sherlock scowled, but John knew that even in this state, still disoriented and somewhat postictal, logic would get through to Sherlock.

They sat there for a moment longer.

“Alright. Do you think you can walk now?”

Sherlock sighed. “Probably.”

John got to his feet and heaved the consulting detective up.

He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but John knew there was no keeping him down now.

He could just follow close behind as Sherlock strode out the door like nothing had happened.


	7. Chapter 7

Even before he opened his eyes, he could tell where he was.

Hospital. One of the most dreaded places in the world.

So he didn't open his eyes, not wanting to face who was inevitably there.

His parents. Great. What, was Mycroft going to show up next? _Probably._

He heard the footsteps of his parents leaving the room, summoned out by a doctor who wished to talk in private. A different set entered the room a short while later.

_That pattern, oh, of course he had to show up. Can't resist a good showdown._

Mycroft.

Sherlock ignored him entirely and ran through the list of people who were responsible.

The stupid policemen, taking him to the hospital. He didn't need to go to the hospital. He would have been perfectly fine to ride out the seizure there and sleep it off. Of course, other people were stupid, and most likely had panicked.

Sherlock hoped his parents didn't know how he got there. Of course, he seemed to be out of luck, probably for the rest of his life.

“I know you're awake Sherlock,” his brother said quietly.

_Doesn't mean I have to talk to you._

Mycroft sighed. “I sent the parents away for a bit, so you might want to talk now rather than when they return.”

Sherlock sighed, but obeyed. Indeed, the room was empty save for Mycroft. Which was still a very full room.

“They don't know how you got here. I do.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, who ignored him, staring instead out the window, which showed only the view of roofs of other buildings. He could hardly see how that view was conducive to recovery.

“So?”

“So, I'm wondering what you were doing.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, fuming.

“Oh, you mean they hadn't noticed I was gone? What a shock,” he bit sarcastically.

Mycroft almost looked shocked.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock laughed. “I ran away the day before, and they didn't notice. Unless you're going to tell me they did.” He looked at Mycroft pointedly.

Mycroft's face turned stony again. “That explains one mystery. And begs another question. Why did you run away?”

Sherlock scowled. “You wouldn't understand.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a move that he'd surely had training for, because Sherlock had tried to do it and couldn't. “Try me,” he whispered.

 

There were footsteps in the hall. Mycroft looked up to see his parents return to the room, a coffee each, and looked back to find Sherlock sleeping soundly.

But he knew otherwise.


	8. Chapter 8

There was nothing more they could do knowing that the tracker had been removed from Gladstone. They returned to the flat. Lestrade dropped by, suspiciously, at the same time as Mycroft, and they both had nothing so far.

Lestrade told them about a few other dogs that had gone missing recently, all from that dog park, and none of them had been found yet.

John winced, knowing that wasn't the best thing to be telling Sherlock at the moment.

Lestrade seemed to realize this halfway through his sentence and trailed off, finishing lamely with how he'd talked to Carl, the owner of the dalmatian, who also hadn't seen anything.

The three others in the room just stared at him.

“I'll... just... go now,” he muttered, ducking out before anyone could protest, giving Mycroft a glance as he did.

Apparently Mycroft took that as an indication for him to speak.

“The CCTV cameras around both parks were not of much use,” he informed Sherlock. “There are people analyzing the footage, but so far, all they've gathered is that it was a dark coloured car, and two men, both of average height with no discernible features.”

“Yes, thank you Mycroft,” he said sarcastically. “Hugely informative as ever.” He crossed his arms and stared at Mycroft, in a position that John would very much describe as pouting.

Mycroft just scoffed at him. “And what do you expect me to do?”

“For god's sake Mycroft, considering the surveillance you have John and I under, you think that you'd be able to keep track of a dog in a vest!” he spat.

Mycroft frowned at him.

 

 

John rubbed his face. “Go lay down Sherlock. Please?” he pleaded.

Sherlock looked at him, all set to protest, but maybe he saw something in John's face that whispered to him _it's not worth it_. Or perhaps he was more in tune with his body than anyone gave him credit for, considering what happened next.

So he scowled at John, but dragged his laptop in with him, muttering something about CCTVs and refunds on trackers. John ignored him and put the kettle on to make tea, cursing the latest body parts in the fridge, and wondering where all those biscuits had gotten to that he'd bought just the other day. He headed towards Sherlock's bedroom, fully intending to berate him for whatever the hell he'd used the biscuits for (because John was pretty sure it was him, rather than Gladstone or Mrs Hudson) except Sherlock was a little unreceptive at the moment, in the midst of his second seizure of the day.

John swore, and removed the laptop from the bed before rolling Sherlock onto his side and waiting it out.

He really missed Gladstone.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft was persistent, and later that night, after Sherlock had been discharged, he invited himself into Sherlock's room without asking and planted himself on the foot of his bed.

“I'm not leaving until we talk,” he stated. “And we both know I will follow through on that threat.”

Sherlock scowled at him, as annoyed about Mycroft in his room as he was about being forced to talk to him.

“Must we talk about something specific?” he asked innocently. “Perhaps the weather, or how your education is progressing.”

Mycroft looked at him with a careful eye.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, you know exactly why I'm here and what I wish to speak about.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Shall I refresh your memory?” He continued without waiting for a response. “About you running away from home over a petty argument and stealing from stores.” His eyes narrowed. “Not to mention the seizures you must have had while you were alone. You know how dangerous that it. And it wasn't about the argument, not really. So what was it about?”

“Seizure,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Singular. There was only one. Besides the one that landed me in the hospital of course,” he added, waving a hand.

Mycroft frowned. “Answer the question Sherlock. Why.”

“I don't like being babied. I'm not a child,” he said petulantly.

Mycroft almost smiled at that. “Of course not. But if you keep doing immature things like what you did, others will have no choice but to treat you as one.”

Sherlock frowned. “But they don't know. Unless you tell them.” He narrowed his eyes at his brother. “You didn't tell them, did you Mycroft? Because you know full well I will tell them about your 'girlfriend's' brother.” Sherlock sneered at him, gesturing in the air with his fingers.

Mycroft paled slightly, so slight it would have been imperceptible to anyone but a fellow Holmes.

Sherlock smiled smugly. “That's what I thought.”

Mycroft rose from the bed and straightened his sleeves.

“I must return to school now. Please Sherlock, don't do anything stupid. Not again.” It almost sounded like he was begging, but that could have been a simple-partial seizure, or maybe just the exhaustion, because if there was one thing Sherlock knew (and really, he knew a lot) it was that Mycroft Holmes does not beg for anything.

And with that he left, ignoring Sherlock's glare.


	10. Chapter 10

“Two in a day so far,” he muttered afterwards, John hovering in the doorway. “Unusual.”

“Did you take your meds this morning?”

Sherlock glared at him. “You watched me, remember?”

John held his hand up in defence. “Just checking.”

“This is an anomaly. I don't like it. John, fix it. Can you fix it?”

“You're stressed,” he replied. “Your cortisol level are probably through the roof, and that's certainly having an effect.”

Sherlock scowled, annoyed that his body could betray him like this in a time of such need.

John shifted uncomfortably. “You should probably rest,” he offered.

“I should _probably_ do a lot of things,” he snapped. “That doesn't mean I will.”

John stared at him.

“I'm going to let that go, because it's been an awful day, in more than one way, but for future reference, that is a 'bit not good', alright?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his head away from John. He took that as a signal to leave, and did, closing the bedroom door behind him.

 

Out in the living room, he texted Mycroft.

**Anything? -JW**

**Still working on it. -M**

John rubbed his face with his hand before typing out and sending the next one.

**He had another one. Stress can be a trigger. -JW**

**I am aware. -M**

“Of course you are,” John muttered, throwing his phone perhaps a little too harshly onto the table.

 

John must have fallen asleep on the couch, startled awake by the doorbell ringing at some absurd hour of the morning. He stumbled down the stairs to open it, muttering that it had damn well better be important. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the light to recognize who it was.

It was Anthea, or whatever her name was that day, not even looking up at him, just looking at her phone and grinning.

“John,” she greeted.

“Umm, yeah? D'you know what time it is?”

She ignored him, motioning over her shoulder to someone behind her.

A man in a dark suit carried something over to him, and it was only once he was in the doorway to 221B that John could tell what it was he was carrying.

“Sherlock!” he called. “Sherlock!”

Within seconds, Sherlock came bounding down the stairs, eyes crazed and hair on end.

When he saw what the man was holding he grinned and skipped the last three steps, landing directly on the ground and running over.

 

It was Gladstone. A little bloody from the wound in her neck, and very exhausted, but it was Gladstone, and she looked absolutely thrilled to see Sherlock.

Likewise, he seemed overjoyed to see her again.

Sherlock scooped her into his arms and cooed at her, apologizing for losing her, for letting them take her, for letting them hurt her.

 

John thanked them and guided Sherlock back upstairs, so enthralled with examining Gladstone that he could have walked into a wall and not have noticed.

He pushed Sherlock onto the couch and went for his phone, still lying rejected on the table. He had a new message.

 **The people responsible have been taken care of.** -M

 **Thank you.** -JW

 

John sat in his chair and watched Sherlock murmur to Gladstone, examining the wound on her neck and smothering her belly with kisses as she rolled around on the floor, obviously glad to be home.

John smiled. Screw anyone who thought Sherlock was a psychopath, or even a high-functioning sociopath like he claimed to be, because those people had obviously never seen what John was witnessing.

A man reunited with his dog.

Love.


End file.
